Jessica Andersen - Skykeepers

Michael was peripherally aware that they were gone, but that wasn’t his focus as passion faded to its aftermath and he sagged, bracing himself against the wall with one arm and holding Sasha against him with the other. He should’ve been wrung out, sated. Satisfied. And on one level he was.

But on another level, fresh and greedy need clawed at him, demanding that he take more, that he take her , make her part of him. And that was a level he didn’t want to go to. One he wished he could rid himself of forever.

Fuck . His defenses were down. She’d stripped him bare, leaving him wide open. And he’d been so caught up in her that he hadn’t noticed, hadn’t reacted to the threat.

Closing his eyes, working fast, he tried to find the center of himself, seeking the peace that had kept him sane for the past year-plus, ever since the talent ceremony that had released the creature within him, the murderous alter ego he called the Other. But he couldn’t find his center. Instead, he found sex magic still burning hot within him, but its jagged edges growing teeth and claws, digging into him, taking him over. Heat rose again, but this time it wasn’t the need to sink himself within her.

It was a far darker, more dangerous need. One she’d brought out in him somehow, even though he’d been able to keep it at bay for so long.

No , he grated inwardly, struggling to keep the Other where it belonged, locked away from the outside world. Don’t you fucking do it . He envisioned the sky-high dam he’d constructed, piece by piece, at the back of his brain, envisioned locking his other self safely behind it. Instead, the dam bulged obscenely as the Other strained to break through, drawn by Sasha’s vital energy, darkness pulled toward the light.

She shifted against him and murmured something into his neck. Strung tight, he pressed his cheek to hers and fought a silent and—hopefully—invisible battle to keep the halves of himself together, fought not to lose control of himself. And in doing so, he missed the moment for soft words and praise.

“ I said , your earpiece is yelling for you.” Sasha turned her face away from him, her body tense.

“And let me down.”

“Sasha—” he began.

“Let. Me. Down.” Her voice was icy.

Shit . He released her, and watched as she retrieved her pants with as much dignity as possible under the circumstances. He didn’t know what to say, didn’t know how to process what had just happened, either between the two of them or between him and the Other. The sex had touched him deeply. And that was a problem.

But he had to say something. So he went with, “Sorry. Postcoital brain freeze. Let me check in with the others; then we’ll talk. I promise.” He waited for her nod, which was a beat slow in coming; then he zipped his fly and jammed his receiver back into his ear. He wasn’t even sure when it’d fallen out.

“Stone here,” he grated after keying on his throat mike.

“Godsdamn it!”Strike’s voice exploded in his ear. “What have you—Never mind. Are you in the chamber?”

His gut fisted at the king’s tone. “What’s wrong?”

“We’re pinned down, and you’ve got a red-robe incoming. Deal with it, and for gods’ sake, keep the woman alive!” The transmission cut out in a rattle of gunshots, or maybe magic, but Michael could fill in the rest for himself. The red-robe was one of the pilli ; he’d sensed the magic flaring in the hidden chamber. His and Sasha’s luck had just run out.

Michael spun toward her. “Sorry,” he said again. And hit her with another sleep spell.

Her eyes flashed with anger for a second, but then she went down, crumpling and lying still, as if too drained to fight the magic this time. It wasn’t fair, he knew, but the same mental blocks that wouldn’t let him tell the others about his past didn’t want her to see what was going to happen next.

He wasn’t an itza’at seer, but he knew that whichever way the next few minutes went, it wasn’t going to be pretty.

Tucking her near the wall, he covered her as best he could with his body armor. Then he pulled the shield spell away from the door and put it over her instead. When he’d done the best he could do for her, he stood and turned, cross-drawing his autopistols in a smooth move that had been ingrained long before he joined the Nightkeepers. “Let’s do this.”

The door slid open as if on cue, and a tall, thin red-robe with hollow cheeks and pale skin stepped through. His eyes went past Michael to the shield behind him, and a look of satisfaction crossed his sallow cheeks. He lifted his wrist and spoke into a comm device. “You were right; she’s in here.” Then he smirked at Michael. “You might’ve gotten away with it if you’d kept it in your pants, playboy.”

Rage hazed Michael’s vision. He answered the taunt by opening fire, putting the autopistols to work with a spurt of dark excitement that echoed his orgasm of only minutes earlier.

The red-robe cast a shield spell, deflecting the bullets as he spoke into his comm, talking fast.

Moments later, the pilli ’s shield rippled. Then, shockingly, the magic flew at Michael, wrapping around him and clinging for a second, freezing him in place. It faded quickly, but the delay gave the Xibalban time to pull a stubby black object and lever it at Michael. A Taser. Shit .

Michael tried to dodge, but the shield residue left him slow to react as the red-robe fired. The clinging barbs tagged the bare skin of Michael’s forearm, just above his marks. He cursed and grabbed for the thing, but he was too damn slow. Electricity arced across the tether, locking him in place.

Pain! It raced through him, freezing him, pissing him off. Mad fury rose within him, bringing with it the hard, vicious power that characterized his other self. Cold logic locked into place, and although his natural healing magic quickly fought the rigor-lock of the electric shock, dulling the pain to a throb and bringing a measure of feeling back to his paralyzed limbs, he didn’t let that on to the red-

robe. Instead he lay limp and still, hoping the bastard would come over to him to yank the barbs, or to get at Sasha. I dare you , he thought coldly, keeping his eyes slitted, his face slack. I fucking dare you .

A moment later, dark ’port magic rattled out in the hallway, and there was a thunderclap of displaced air. Michael’s earpiece was dead, no doubt shorted to shit by the Taser zap, but he didn’t need Strike to guess who had just arrived. The Xibalbans’ leader might not have the stones—or the power—to ’port straight into the uprooted Nightkeeper temple, but he obviously had no trouble getting through his own wards to the rock-shielded tunnels below. Which was just more proof the Xibalbans were light-years ahead of the Nightkeepers in terms of magic.

Gods help me protect her , prayed the piece of Michael that still could pray. The Nightkeepers were doomed without the library.

Iago stepped through the doorway a heartbeat later, wearing black leathers, heavy boots, and a slash-metal concert tee. He exchanged a look with the red-robe, then crouched down beside Michael.

“Fug—” Michael began, then broke off with a gargle when the Xibalban grabbed him by the throat and squeezed hard.

Iago leaned in, his pupils going to pinpricks. “Did you just fuck her, or was there more?”

A terrible force pressed behind Michael’s eyes, driving a knife into his brain and paralyzing him once again. He would’ve screamed, but he had no breath, would’ve writhed, but his muscles were still lax. Then Iago let go of his throat and the pressure snapped out of existence, as though it had never been, leaving Michael to groan with the absence of pain and the sudden flood of feeling returning to the rest of his body.